


Shroom Fuzzies

by seaweedredandbrown



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mushrooms, One Shot, Prompt Fill, Silly, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9588968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaweedredandbrown/pseuds/seaweedredandbrown
Summary: As prompted by MissMuffin221 on tumblr: "Bilbo finds mushrooms, but instead of harmless edible ones, he confuses them with a similar looking kind. He gets a little high and touchy at Thorin :)"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/gifts).



Thorin, son of Thráin, was, by all accounts, a seasoned warrior. 

"Master Dwarf... What a lovely coat you have..." 

He had fought many foes of many kinds; he had led his people through many hardships and toiled for many years whether as a smith or a hired sword. 

"... It looks… so warm..." 

He had once risen against the deadliest of assailants with an oak branch as his only shield. He had trained so hard before setting on his quest. He thought he was prepared to face _anything_. 

"And your hair... It looks... so soft..." 

Well, he definitely was not prepared to face hobbits.  
With the slightest shadow of a sigh, he pushed back his company's burglar. Again. The halfling blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, then reached out his arms and charged anew. 

"Master Dwarf," he slurred, "bulky, sturdy warrior of the East..." 

Thorin clenched his jaw and pushed him back for the umpteenth time. He had no idea what he had done to Mahal to deserve this, but he was starting to think that his sins were much more serious than he had realised. 

Perhaps pride had been one of them; perhaps he should not have underestimated the viciousness of the burglar when he had first seen him. He had no idea that "some skills at conkers" was synonymous with "expert poisoner”, yet given how the halfling had put the rest of his company to sleep, there was no mistaking it. This was an insider’s job - and one poorly done at that, given that the mongrel had also poisoned himself, if his reddened eyes and flustered cheeks were anything to go by. What a pitiful, absolutely not endearing sight. 

Thorin should have refused him any place in his company at all, if not sliced his throat at the first opportunity. He had not paid much attention when the hobbit had brought back the toadstools from his little evening walk away from the camp. Bilbo claimed he enjoyed the quiet, but then he had also claimed that those were perfectly edible and a real treat in his native Shire. Said native Shire had thankfully been behind them for the better part of a month. 

This was nothing near enough for Thorin, son of Thráin, who would have wished to see the place razed to the grounds with its annoying little windy paths that all looked the same. At least the locals had the decency of living mostly underground, although they still took to eating green foods. Hence the mushrooms and the burglar's enthusiasm. It would not have been so bad had the whole company not partaken in the meal as well, except for Thorin who knew better than to trust food that sprouted off the ground. They had all fallen sound asleep a little while after mealtime, which left him the only one still awake to deal with their burglar in his rather unseemly state. 

"But Master Dwarf..." 

Thorin closed his eyes. Keeping the halfling at arm's length was easy enough, but these shenanigans were depriving him of precious hours of sleep. Every time he'd push back, the hobbit would step away, ramble about being a proper host and then charge right back in. Thorin had to admire his tenacity. Things would have been much easier had tenacity been the only thing there was to admire in him, but he also had quite the curly hair and the green-hazel eyes, the pale complexion and the amiable face. It was all wasted on a halfling, of course, and Thorin was absolutely above such things, but he had to admit that with longer, braided hair and a proper beard, Master Baggins might have made quite the sight under Dwarven halls. 

Well, there would be no Dwarven halls reclaimed to admire a bearded halfling in, if the company kept on sleeping in most mornings. First the rain, then this distasteful business with the trolls, and now this. This Quest was starting to look like a bloody promenade and it was only partially his nephews' fault. The hobbit didn't help at all and if he was keeping on wobbling like this...  
Thorin's move might have been a bit too sharp; he might have pushed the poor hobbit back a bit too strong. Master Baggins stumbled and leaned backwards. Thorin's training kicked in and he stepped forward, catching the hobbit in his fall with a muttered curse. 

“Oh,” the hobbit slurred, “my apologies.” 

Thorin refrained from sighing, tightened his jaw which was starting to hurt by now with all the clenching, and pulled the hobbit back on his feet. From close up, he looked even more dishevelled and intoxicated, drops of sweat pearling off his forehead, eyes ajar and lips curled into a lazy smile. Thorin beat his inner voice into compliance. He could almost hear his sister’s laughter from here, even though she had never laughed since her widowing. 

While he was trying not to be too endeared, said object of his admiration had held out a lazy hand and started petting his hair. Thorin reached out to slap his wrist away, but Master Baggins’ grip was much stronger than it looked. 

“Your hair is so soft… It’s so much softer than the feet…”  
“The feet,” Thorin repeated, incredulous. What in Mahal’s hammer was he going on about?  
“The hair on my feet!” 

The hair. On. His. Feet.  
Thorin’s hair was softer than the burglar’s feethair. _Of course_ it was, really, what did he - what was he doing?!

“Braiding,” the hobbit slurred, “is fun.” 

Oh Mahal save him, Thorin was about to commit murder. He did not have the time to explain… He did not have the time, the energy or the will to explain the symbolic importance of braiding in Dwarven culture, nor was he in any capacity to fight it. It was just - nice. It was nice to feel the soft pull on his scalp, the imprecise but determined fingers brushing past his skin; there was an intimacy to the gesture he had never felt in any other occasion. Fond memories of watching his grandmother oiling and braiding his grandfather’s beard came to him. He let out a little sigh - of frustration and resignation, nothing else - and discovered that another look at the hobbit’s face pushed all murderous intentions to the back of his mind. The halfling’s eyes were half-closed in what could either be haze or concentration. The tiniest tip of a tongue peeked out of his pinched lips. Concentration, then.  
This was braiding and not an assassination attempt. It was not at all as unpleasant as Thorin made it sound, and it really was getting late. 

“Very well,” Thorin growled, trying to sound as majestic as he could, “if you insist, let us at least sit down.” 

That was easier said than done: the hobbit wouldn’t let go of his hair and there was no way in Mahal’s Halls Thorin would go and sit close to the fire lest the members of his company wake up and witness that particularly embarrassing scene. Some yelping and hissing and hair-pulling later, Thorin sat with his back against the trunk of a nearby tree, Bilbo kneeling at his side, rambling softly as he entwined his hair into marriage braids, kinship braids, honour braids, and a dozen others that had no meaning whatsoever. Thorin did his best to look brooding and regal, busying his mind with strategies and old tales.

He did not want to pay any heed to the relaxation washing over him in soft, gentle waves, which was why he did not feel sleep creep over him either.  
He did realise something was wrong as soon as he woke up several hours later, certain as he was that his blanket did not snore or offer such a fuzzy, soft sensation to the touch. Unfortunately, by that time most of his companions in arms had already awoken and it took him a great deal of hair-flipping and majestic growling to stop them laughing. Then Master Baggins rose from his slumber, complaining about the noise, and all things went back to order. 

(Years later, they would find out that young Ori had sketched the scene and that copies were sold all over Erebor.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it~ Special thanks to [The Lady Of Purpletown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Purpletown) for beta-reading this!  
> Comments and feedback always appreciated :)


End file.
